


Anything Stirring

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bath Houses, Bathing/Washing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Turkish Baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6177757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turkish bath fic. 'Nuff said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything Stirring

My friend Sherlock Holmes and I share a common ordeal during the months of London winter. Long stretches of cold dirty weather bring a dearth of interesting cases for Holmes (criminals stay at home in inhospitable weather along with the law-abiding) at the same time that a glut of illnesses immerse me in my practise. The combination is exhausting for both of us; the drag of ennui wears on him as much as my rounds among influenza-riddled Londoners enervate me. This combination brings us another shared hardship by nature of our disparate activities: we become separated from each other’s company for far too long, to the point that we sometimes do not see each other for days.

So when I came home one rainy Thursday afternoon in February and Holmes met me at the door with the announcement that we both required a shared change of venue, I was in full agreement mentally even if all my weary body wished was to close the door with me on the inward side. To my great pleasure (and no small relief), Holmes proposed we go no further than a nearby _hammam_ to take our ease; I had half-expected Holmes to tell me of a case out in the Highlands of Scotland that required our immediate attention.

My friend and I share a fondness for the Turkish bath and indulge ourselves on a regular basis; our current schedule had disrupted this practise and I looked forward to visiting our favoured Northumberland Avenue retreat. A hot room and a relaxing massage loomed like an oasis before my mind’s eye.

 

But when Holmes summoned a cab and indicated that I should precede him in, the address that he gave the cabbie made my heart quicken and my face heat. I looked out the window away from my friend and kept my hands clasped together in my lap; our separation and my anticipation did not bode well for my control were I to merely look at Holmes in this state. His low soundless laugh echoed in my blood; he knew that I knew.

 

The Savoy Turkish bath in Jermyn Street was laid out much like our accustomed haunt. This establishment, however, witnessed the same illegalities among gentlemen that my friend and I normally confined to our rooms. That activity, too, had suffered from our wintry separation.

 

In the vestibule we disrobed and were provided with bath-sheets (I did not dare watch Holmes strip; I had been away from him for too long) and were soon lying on marble slabs in the hot air of the calidarium. The sullen cold of the outside weather was soon forgotten as we perspired freely. The heat of the room filled me, centered in my groin. I groaned in longing, unafraid at making such a sound here, for other men made such an utterance under the masseurs’ hands. I wanted Holmes. I wanted him parting my thighs, swallowing my prick, both of us hot and damp, sliding together.

 

“In good time, my boy,” a familiar voice murmured near my ear. I couldn’t help but chuckle at Holmes deducing my very thoughts even here. “This establishment provides a splendid bath.”

 

If the steam had encouraged my masculine reaction, the tepid water dashed against me (which felt icy after the heat) and the rough-gloved hands of the shampooer massaging away dead skin cells prior to lathering and dashing more water provided the cure for that reflex.

                                                                                                            

So far this place had been like our own bath; its reputation seemed unearned. But when we went into the warm pool was when I saw the difference. Men were indeed soaking in the warm water with no further motive than a bath; but others lay in pairs on couches surrounding the pool, or sat naked inviting others between their legs, and their utterances were not caused by the masseur.

 

I sat upon a wide bench and ordered my man to my side with my eyes. He flew to me; his clever hands took my prick and ballocks into their keeping, and I groaned loudly into his mouth.

 

A famished man does not do justice to a feast, but will devour carefully-prepared dishes with no more thought than consuming a bowl of porridge. Our hunger for each other made us quick, clumsy, eager; we swelled and spilled into each other’s grip within a minute. We sat side by side on the bench with our backs to the wall, panting as our hearts resumed their regular beats. We were paid no heed by the other occupied men around us.

 

My lover cleaned us both with a damp cloth and caressed my cheek with one graceful hand. “I think we are in a state to resume our bath, dear fellow.”

 

By the time I had emerged from the cold pool I was ready for the drying-couch. I felt limp and boneless, and my skin tingled all over as if it had been replaced. I closed my eyes in languor, swathed in my sheet. Clumsy and disappointingly quick as our liaison had been, it had relaxed me from top to toe and had no doubt done the same to Holmes.

 

A low voice near my ear. “Your verdict, Doctor?” Holmes lay in the couch immediately abutting my own, wrapped in his own sheet; we might as well be lying together on one wide couch. Others lay on couches in the room, smoking or reading papers, as in any other bathing establishment; this bath’s lascivious reputation clearly did not extend to this room. I understood Holmes’ _sotto voce_ ; the only sound in this room was the rustling of newspapers and the faint drawing of pipes.

 

I responded in the same whisper. “A capital restorative.” I saw that Holmes was flushed even after the cold plunge, his hair rumpled; he looked as relaxed as I felt, lying back with one hand under his head. I looked again. One hand…?

 

I opened my mouth but made no sound as I felt the warmth of his other hand cover my groin under the sheet, the surface giving never a sign of its presence.

 

“Let us see if anything is stirring,” murmured Sherlock Holmes, and gathered my ballocks in his hand once again as he looked away from me as if observing the other men around us.

 

“You… _devil_ ,” I managed in a very quiet voice.

 

His only response was to stroke me under the sheet – again, without betraying by a single surface movement that he was doing so. Here, so close to the building entrance, in a drying-room as voiceless as the Diogenes Club, was a true risk that would have been winked at on the lower levels.

 

My earlier paroxysm had slowed my reflex; this swelling was slower, gradual, heaving in his hand. I couldn’t move without betraying our secret. And Holmes looked as if his full attention was on deducing whether that fellow across the room was a banker or a shipwright.

 

The heat flushed me again, travelling from my groin down and upward. I was erect once more. I wanted to arch and thrust into his hand, seize his own prick, roll myself against him and rut once again. But I must lie on my couch with my hands behind my head as I had been when I had been taken in hand.

 

I had two shields from the other eyes in the room; my towel, and Holmes between my couch and the rest of the room. I must gasp very quietly, open-mouthed, and twitch my head faintly as if working out a neck-kink, whilst Sherlock Holmes frigged me like a molly-boy at the docks.

 

One downward stroke made me arch back and turn a cry into a cough. Horrified, I cast a rapid sidelong look to see if I had caused a disturbance, only to see a whippet-lean man two couches over shake open the next page of the _Times_. His page-turning had rustled the paper loud enough to mask my outcry admirably. Now I understood why Holmes’ attention was turned toward our fellow patrons. I stopped the grin I wanted to make and turned it into a yawn.

 

My blood was racing, hot as the caldarium, heart pounding; the hands I love so much that I have described their grace and beauty even in my plain little crime stories fondled and stroked and squeezed all from arsehole to navel. Holmes might have been lounging on the divan in Baker Street – save for the diabolical twinkle I knew he would have in his eyes – but my twitching, shuddering self must have looked more like a man in want of a Turkish bath rather than someone who’d just had one. Holmes timed every touch, every obscene caress, so that my faint reactions were overshadowed by another paper turned, a dropped pipe, another patron walking into the room.

 

Frantic, I cast my eyes across the room, and saw one portly flax-haired fellow with a walrus-moustache on the verge of a colossal sneeze. Even I could deduce what would happen next –

 

Holmes made a sharp downward stroke of his thumb along my vein.

 

The room blanked out as I convulsed, my throttled shriek drowned out as the entire room startled by the noise and paroxysm made by the moustached blond man. “Erm. Pologies,” the fellow muttered, embarrassed, and resettled himself.

 

Holmes had taken advantage of the diversion to turn toward me, settle me, gather my towel to clean the evidence from my groin and belly. I could only lie on the couch and shudder in the aftermath.

 

We waited until I had truly cooled off from my experience in the bath before leaving the room and heading to the lockers for our clothes.

 

“If you try that little trick of yours again, my dear old sport, we may get permanently banned from this establishment,” I warned him with little heat, for I was glowing in an unbecoming way.

 

Holmes smiled – he knew, the rogue. “That would be a pity, my dear Watson. We would then be forced to patronise the remaining mere 114 Turkish baths in London.”


End file.
